Page 41 of Her Summer Hope

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The rain stopped by the time she came back to finish the meal.

He heard her car pulling up the drive and wondered, not for the first time, why she drove that particular model. It was an old Lincoln Town Car, not exactly something a young wife would usually be driving around in. By itself, it wouldn’t have meant much, but along with his other observations…it raised more questions.

The crying baby was another huge question mark.

It seemed like a long shot that the baby was hers. If she was a mother, wouldn’t that be something she’d bring up right away? Wouldn’t she want to talk about the baby? If she did have a baby, then who took care of him—or her— while her husband was out of town?

He was no expert on babies, but the one he’d heard crying was young—maybe a newborn.

He stood on the back porch and watched her walk up the back steps, holding the rail carefully. He smiled a little. Even though she was holding out on him, he was happy to see her.

Which made his smile fade completely.

He shouldn’t be any happier to see her than anyone else. He shouldn’t feel lighter in her presence. He shouldn’t feel so at ease with another man’s wife. It was wrong. Completely wrong.

“Look, no hands,” she said, releasing the rail and taking the last step.

“Keep doing that and I’m going to have to add on some hazardous duty pay,” he complained gruffly, trying to separate his confusing emotions from his role as boss.

“No need for that. I’ll be careful,” she promised, strolling inside ahead of him as he opened the door for her.

The kitchen was inviting and smelled delicious.

“I thought we could talk about your schedule while you worked,” he began as she washed her hands and pulled on an apron.

She had changed out of her clothes from earlier and was now wearing a knee-length dress. He noticed that she still had on the bandaid and a large bruise had developed underneath. She turned away to study the clipboard before spinning to the panty.

Her hair had been twirled up and was somehow suspended in a bun held only by something stick-like and vaguely lethal-looking.

“Sure,” she said. “Let me just go get the vegetables.”

He watched her bustling around the kitchen, gathering up the ingredients and tools that she needed. It struck a chord somewhere deep inside him and he realized that he liked having her there. He liked watching her prepare a meal almost effortlessly.

She was almost a stranger but she made the kitchen feel home-like, and that was something that he hadn’t had in a very long time—not since he was a kid, if he was honest.

She was breathtaking.

She put on some oven mitts and struggled to pull the full cast iron pots from the oven. He’d been stuck in his silly daydream while she’d been working. He went to offer her a hand, but she’d already gotten them out and was lifting the lid to check their progress in a cloud of fragrant steam.

“They’re looking good,” she stated.

She put them back in and preheated a separate oven before pulling a cutting board over and starting to chop.

“I was thinking we could have Thanksgiving and Christmas catered, and work out something for New Year’s Day and all the other holidays. I’ll give you holiday pay, of course, and you can request time off whenever you need it. You know, for doctor appointments and stuff.”

He was probing for more information, though he wasn’t sure if she knew it.

She nodded and kept a straight face. She wasn’t going to say a word.

“I’d imagine your family would want you around on those days,” he said, leaning on the counter.

Her eyes jerked up to his for a second and the knife slipped and made a loud thunk on the wooden cutting board. He snatched her hand up before he even thought about it, searching for a missing finger or a fountain of blood, while she looked at him in shock.

Thankfully, there was neither and he let go as if he’d been burned.

In a way he had.

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